


(faith)

by doomcake



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: (take your pick), M/M, Unfinished, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, crazy!Gokudera, ghost!Yamamoto, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-07
Updated: 2009-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: Yamamoto has been dead for two years, and Gokudera still isn't past it. Doesn't help that he's convinced that he still sees Yamamoto on a regular basis.





	1. faith(less).

**Author's Note:**

> 2017 NOTES:  
> Oh man, this was supposed to be a series of quick!fics when I was itching to write something but didn't want to go heavy on plot. Then this got a little deep (for me, at the time) and didn't expand beyond 3 parts. I do recall having a large amount of ideas written down in notes, though I don't know where those are stored now. (It's been a while!)  
>   
> The formatting might be a little weird because this was imported from LJ, and at the time, I had a lot more leeway on formatting. Hopefully it will translate well enough here...

It’s been two years, and it still feels like only yesterday that Gokudera came across something that truly haunts his dreams and makes his stomach churn. Blood and gore, spattered in slices and spots in a manner that’s morbidly artistic, across a cold concrete canvas – this isn’t a new scene to the Vongola’s Right, but the fact that all of the entrails he’s trying so hard not to step on belong to an individual he once thought was nearly immortal–

His stomach drops at the memory, and he has to turn away from the gravestone before his eyes can trick him into watching the scene again on its shiny black surface, marred by kanji spelling out a name that Gokudera had finally etched into his own heart:

>   
>  |山|  
>  |本|  
>  |武|  
> 

This is only the third time he’s visited the grave since then; the second time this week. Like he has an obligation, or something, to that goddamned idiot who _let himself get killed, fucking moron._

“Do you know what you’ve put me through since then?” he says, under his breath, hurt and angry and feeling incredibly abandoned. “You stupid freak, I told you not to go there alone. _I told you that._ Why didn’t you wait for me? Damn it!”

Today, he’s angry. He’s angry, and he’s going to take it out on a ghost that he just had given his heartfelt and genuine respect to earlier this week. He didn’t come here with the intention of letting out the frustration he’s kept pent-up for the last two years; he came because all he wants back is the owner of the name on the stone cold tablet, to see his stupid smile on that stupid face while he laughed _oh so stupidly_ while they did the stupidest things imaginable, because that’s what idiots do. Idiots like that – they don’t belong in graves, or only existing in fading, fleeting memories.

And _oh god,_ he misses him. And he’s afraid that he _won’t remember so vividly_ if he cuts himself away for too long, if he lives his life–

_**I wouldn’t have wanted that, Hayato.**_

_I know._

And it almost – _almost_ – feels like he’s right next to him, close, and if Gokudera would just look to his left, he’d see. It’s a presence that leeches the fury right out of him, and leaves him feeling almost hollow and all too alone.

“Why did you have to go and do this, you idiot?” he says, voice hitching and leaving him feeling like he’s choking on a thick bubble stuck in his throat. “You were supposed to always be by my side. You said so. You fucking _promised._ ”

_**But I am.**_

The voice in his head is so real, so alive that he falls to temptation and whips his head to the left with eyes wide and–

Sees the same row of gravestone after gravestone.

He sighs, _wishful thinking, fucker,_ and bows his head in prayer as he lights the incense in front of Takeshi’s resting place. The same match, he uses to light a cigarette and takes a long drag and looks everywhere but at the cold polished stone. Exhaling, he pins the white kanji with a serious stare and says, quietly, “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” _Idiot._

_**Promise?**_

His breath catches around a puff of smoke when a faint, broad smile greets him from the stone, and he quickly turns away muttering to himself about letting sleeping idiots lie. But he nods despite himself, and despite the fact that Takeshi's promise had already been broken.

_Yeah. Promise._

 

 

 

It isn’t two days before he’s in the middle of a firefight with a terrorist who thinks he has balls of brass and can take on the most powerful mafia famiglia in Japan. The Tenth is safely tucked away in another portion of the estate, which is just as well because Gokudera doesn’t want him to witness his anger. He hasn’t had a good fight in months now, and this jackass is going to be the perfect target for some of his new Sistema C.A.I. offensive methods.

Except that he forgets when he’s on the offense, sometimes he isn’t on the defense. He doesn’t realize this until he comes away from the fight – victorious, _fuck you_ – with bullet holes and burn marks all over his finely tailored suit.

And it doesn’t make a damned bit of sense that he isn’t bleeding _anywhere_.

_What the fuck–_

He swears he can feel the breath on the back of his neck, the familiar warm aura that surrounds him, and he swears he can smell a faint hint of the cologne _he_ wore. He turns around, and nobody’s there.

There’s the ghost of warm fingers brushing along his shoulder, and he turns again – _no. It can’t be._

_**You promised.**_

It takes all of his willpower not to burst into laughter right there. He’s going fucking bonkers, which is great because the Tenth _surely_ needs more insane Guardians at his side. Takeshi is not. There.

_But–_

He slams the door on the small sliver of hope, of belief that Takeshi just might be there. He doesn’t need it, not now.

“Stop haunting me, you idiot.”

The ghost that’s tearing what sanity he has left to shreds doesn’t answer. He sighs.

And the silence afterwards hurts more than he cares to admit.

 


	2. faith(less).

The next time Gokudera thinks he sees Takeshi’s ghost, he’s sitting against the wall in the surveillance room, and he reminds himself that even if the ghost is real (he’s going fucking nuts), he’s still mad at the idiot. It’s not like he’s going to talk to the damn thing anyway, not right now. Not until the damn ghost apologizes for being… well, a _fucking ghost_.

That, and he’s trying to beat back a few intruders that are trying to sneak into the Vongola estate. No matter that he’s got a cough from hell right now – fucking cold – or that he’s tired and fucking sick of being the only Guardian who is reliably at hand. Point is this: _this is all your fault, Takeshi_. In defiance, he scowls at the ghost sitting across from him, but continues with his silent treatment. It’s not like the damn thing is going to talk back to him – it’s a figment of his imagination.

And then, the ghost has the _fucking gall_ to smile back at him, and it’s a cruel, cruel mockery of what that smile used to be like in life.

And yet… yet the more Gokudera looks (he’s still scowling, dammit), the more the apparition’s smile – _it’s sad, that’s why it’s so off_ – tugs the little strings attached to the center of his chest. He rubs at his sternum, swallowing hard, and finally obeying the intense need to look away from the idiot’s ghost.

_What the fuck do you want this time?_

_**You need to stop beating yourself up over this.**_

Gokudera snorts – _hah. Haha, now_ that’s _funny, Takeshi. Because this is your fault, not mine._

_**You’ll have to let it go.**_

This time, Gokudera actually laughs out loud. “You’re fucking hilarious, for a ghost,” he says.

The ghost says nothing, but Lambo turns from his seat by the monitors with a frown and asks, “What was that, Gokudera-kun?”

“Nothing. Mind your own damn business, stupid cow.”

Lambo sniffs in annoyance, but turns around and complies anyway.

Gokudera continues to stare down Takeshi’s phantom, who continues to smile back – and the longer Gokudera stares, the more he swears he can see the barest hint of the outline of small, white wings. Nothing large enough to carry a human-sized frame (especially not one as fucking huge as the baseball freak’s body is), but they serve to trigger ideas in Gokudera’s mind that has his brain at the edge of going a thousand thoughts a second. His eyes widen, and he has to blink – and it’s gone, as if it wasn’t there.

_I’m fucking having visions of visions. … What the fuck is so funny, Takeshi?_

The ghost stops chuckling, settling for a shit-eating, know-it-all grin that tells Gokudera absolutely nothing of importance. _**Nothing**_ , it – _Takeshi_ says.

Gokudera snorts, thinks that yeah, maybe this is pretty damn funny that he’s going berserk and it’s all over the damn idiot’s spirit (which he isn’t even sure he’s actually seeing). It’s not worth arguing with a ghost over it, anyway.

He coughs harshly into his hand, grunting as his throat burns and chest squeezes at the motion, and he decides that he’s fucking sick of being sick. When the coughing fit finally leaves him the fuck alone, he looks up to find that “Takeshi” isn’t there anymore. He rubs at the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with how shitty he feels right now, and continues to frown.

_Just as well,_ he thinks, and refuses to admit the fact that he’s not too pleased about it.

“Gokudera-kun – the intruders are backing out!” Lambo suddenly announces from his seat, pointing at one of the monitors.

“What the–” Gokudera’s on his feet, peering closely at the monitor Lambo indicates, and several of the damn thugs were backing away. “Hah! That’ll teach them to fuck with us. Fucking cowards; I was looking forward to a brawl tonight–”

But then he sees the barest hint of the outline of a burning bird – _it’s a swallow_ – as it flits around the translucent blade of a sword that no longer exists. Gokudera’s breath catches in his throat when Yamamoto’s ghost comes into the camera’s line of sight – no, there _are_ wings, and while small, they’re bright and white and it’s one of the most beautiful things he has seen in a long time.

He catches the concerned look Lambo shoots him out of the corner of his eye, and realizes that Lambo probably isn’t seeing what he’s seeing (though the damn intruders apparently do, stupid fucks), so he plasters a scowl back on his face and says nothing back. _Yes, I’m crazy you fucking retarded cow,_ he says in a glare, and turns away from the monitors.

He’s not sure if he wants to be angry at Yamamoto’s damn _ghost_ for stealing his brawl for the night, or if he wants to admit to himself that he’s relieved – only a little.

And maybe… maybe he isn’t so crazy after all.

 


	3. (on)faith.

Gokudera is rinsing toothpaste out of his mouth when Takeshi’s ghost shows up next. One look into the mirror, and he nearly chokes on the water he’s spitting out. After he finishes coughing (again—still not quite over that damn cold yet), he whirls and glares at the outline of Takeshi’s ghost—which, he notices, isn’t quite as transparent as it was before.  
  
“Was that absolutely necessary, dumbass?” he snaps, then rubs his face. “Jesus, I don’t even know why I bother; you’re not even _real_.”  
  
And his breath hitches when there’s an unexpected touch, a hand—warm like hot breath, but airy and not quite solid—brushing past his bare shoulder, sending tingles down scars of more recent wounds.  
  
_**What do you call this, then?**_  
  
The voice is smug, and it almost makes Gokudera angry. _Almost_. Because he can’t seem to get angry at someone who’s not even alive.  
  
“Goddamn it, why are you doing this?” he asks, and he can’t seem to hide the weariness in his soul from creeping into his voice. “You’re supposed to be _dead_ , and I am supposed to be _moving on_. This whole _showing up and making Hayato’s life OHSOMUCH more confusing_ thing? Well guess what: it isn’t helping.”  
  
_**But you hadn’t moved on, or I wouldn’t be here.**_  
  
The words are like a slap to the face with such naked honesty, and Gokudera wants to deny _deny deny_ , but he knows—and the damn apparition obviously knows as well—that he would only be lying to them both. He reaches out, hesitantly, and then inhales sharply as his fingertips touch _something solid_. He looks up at Takeshi, _infuriated crushed relieveddepressedhopefulangry_ – not sure what to feel, except Takeshi.  
  
“Then _why_?” he asks, after a stretch.  
  
_**Because you asked. And because I promised.**_  
  
The dam breaks, because Gokudera lacks the strength to hold it back anymore. _This just isn’t fucking fair, you asshole._  
  
_**… I’m sorry.**_  
  
“Yeah, well, _sorry_ just isn’t going to cut it right now,” Gokudera snaps back before he realizes he hadn’t said anything aloud. When he finally notices, he grits his teeth, and then sighs.  
  
_No use in wasting breath, then._ He stomps over to the bed and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, taking a long drag as the embers on the end of the stick glow warmly in response. And then, hesitantly, he looks up to see Takeshi frowning at the cigarette perched between his fingers.  
  
_**I thought you quit.**_  
  
Gokudera snorts, smoke coming out from between his nostrils in a satisfying puff of breath. _You’re not really here anymore to stop me, so why not?_  
  
_**Because you know I hate it.**_  
  
“Well, if you hadn’t gone and fucking _died_ on me, I wouldn’t need to!” he snaps aloud this time.  
  
Takeshi doesn’t say anything, but Gokudera doesn’t miss that hint of regret shining in Takeshi’s eyes as the apparition looks away this time. He blows a stream of smoke with a sigh, and then crushes the fresh cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand. It’s sad that even a dead man can make him feel so low and guilty, and so this time he reaches out—hesitantly, at first—and suppresses a shudder when his fingertips brush what almost feels like skin. Takeshi’s ghost looks at him in surprise (Gokudera isn’t sure if it’s about the cigarette, or the touch itself, or even the look Gokudera’s sure he’s wearing right now but doesn’t care).  
  
_… Stay?_ he asks, not sure he can stave off the nightmares alone tonight.  
  
With a mirthless smile, a ghostly hand covers his. _**Always.**_  
  
  
  
Gokudera wakes alone, but he swears that he can still feel the after-warmth of familiar, calloused hands on his bare arms.


End file.
